


Try Not to Sing Out of Key

by Arsenic



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Families of Choice, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 21:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13598409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Trowa thinks Une's lonely.  He also thinks she shouldn't be.





	Try Not to Sing Out of Key

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spoilers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoilers/gifts).



> Thank you to my beta, who came through last minute when I needed her.
> 
> Recip, I really really hope you enjoy this. I can't always tell if I'm hitting the right note on a fill, and this was one of those times, but I'm crossing my fingers that I managed.

It's early evening when there's a knock on Une's door. She's done with meetings for the day unless there's an emergency, and had been hoping to make it home before ten for the first time in over a week. She allows herself a sigh and calls, "Come in."

She blinks when the door opens and standing behind it is Barton, decked out in a bespoke tuxedo. Recovering, she asks, "Was there something I could help you with?"

Une wouldn't call herself at ease with any of the pilots, despite all of them working for the same side at this point. But Barton is particularly tricky, since she has only recovered bits and pieces of Before and is not sure why she made the decisions she made in regard to him, and even less sure how he sees her. His silence is hard to read, perhaps even harder than Yuy's. 

To her surprise, he sounds somewhat chagrined when he says, "Quatre had a last minute family situation arise. I was wondering if you might want to go to the symphony with me. I apologize for the lack of warning."

Brilliantly, what she manages to say to that is, "The symphony."

"Heero says Relena told him that the one thing she's learned of you in all these months that has nothing to do with politics or duty is that you enjoy music."

Une hasn't the slightest idea how Relena learned such a thing, nor does she understand why Barton is offering her this ticket rather than one of the other pilots, or simply attending alone. She looks down at where she's wearing her uniform. She has no doubt her hair is coming loose, and that she looks like a woman who has spent the day putting out fires.

He must glean her thought process from her gaze. He says, "It's a box. Nobody will be able to see."

Right. Winner's tickets. It's easy to forget that Winner's fortune dwarfs the Peacecraft, Catalonia, and Khushenrada estates combined. She opens her mouth to decline—she has more work and really, bed is calling her name—and finds herself saying, "I'd like that."

A corner of Barton's mouth flickers upward. "The car's downstairs."

*

Une's title isn't for show, and wasn't given to her by Treize. She was born the second child—worse, a daughter—to nobility. She knows Noin thought Une bought her way into the military, and she could have, but did not. For all that, she does not doubt her father's name gave her access where she otherwise could not have gotten any. It's why she stopped using her family name. She would have stopped using the title, only Treize never did and she had always liked the way he said it, as though it were something she had earned, rather than simply been born into.

Une's childhood might not have been filled with much—or any—love, but it had certainly been gilded in wealth. This isn't the first time she's been in the box of a symphony hall. She can't begin to count the years since her last time in one, though. Strangely, even though this is a different hall on a different colony in a different kingdom, it is stunningly familiar. There's the sweep of red velvet, the gilded balconies, the high curve of the ceiling. Everything is overdone and yet somehow still classic. 

Barton takes a seat and says, "This makes me miss the circus, in a way."

Une blinks, surprised at the rather personal revelation. "Oh?"

"The anticipation of the audience, the way I can just imagine swinging on a trapeze from one balcony to the next." He shrugs. "I suppose in some ways spectacle is always the same."

Une isn't sure how to respond to that. She takes the seat next to Barton. "I've never actually seen a circus."

He turns to look at her, surprise evident in his visible eye. "Never?"

It is her turn to shrug. "My parents only approved of certain types of spectacle."

He regards her for a long moment. "Well. You'll have to come along the next time a troupe is in town."

Une frowns without meaning to. She doesn't understand the invitation. They are not friends. She might not completely know what they are to each other, but she can say that with some confidence. She has tried to kill one of his friends. "Why?"

"Why…must you come along?" Barton asks.

"Yes. Why invite me this evening, why suggest a follow-up outing, why pay me any attention whatsoever beyond what is professionally necessary?"

Barton tilts his head. "Because I was a lonely kid until Quatre and Duo and even Heero pulled me into their worlds. You're a lonely adult. Call it paying it forward, if that helps."

"Not really."

"Then call it me being tired of fighting. What the hell is peace for if not to be at peace with the people in your life?"

"I—" Une swallows and admits, "I don't know. What peace is for, that is. I don't know what it's for, just that it's necessary."

Quietly, Barton tells her, "Maybe it's time to figure it out."

*

Une goes home from the symphony with the final piece—Schumann's 3rd—looping through her head, gets a golden six hours of sleep, and figures that Barton has made his point, and that will be that. She's unsure of how she feels about that, and like most things which make her feel unbalanced these days, she pushes it firmly to the side in favor of the myriad of day-to-day business there is to deal with.

Which explains why she isn't expecting Winner to find her sneaking a two minute coffee break the next week, in between minor crises. He's in a business suit, meaning he's probably been called in to talk about funding, rather than for any strategic purpose. It bothers her that she doesn't remember seeing that on her calendar. She'll have to ask Dorothy if she knows anything, just to make sure there isn't some bizarre mutiny occurring. 

Then again, it'd be kind of weird for Winner to clue her in, if that were the case.

She shakes her head slightly, trying to slow her brain down, and says, "Winner."

"Lady. Or do you prefer Commander?"

The option is surprising. She ends up offering, "Just Une, please."

"Une, then," he says easily enough. "Trowa and I were wondering if you'd be willing to join us for dinner next week. We're still getting used to doing things like cooking for ourselves and owning cats, so I'm not going to promise a spectacular culinary experience, but all our plates match."

She realizes she's been holding a sip of coffee in her mouth for the entirety of his small monologue and swallows. "Ah—"

"Please," he says, with that stupidly genuine, open way he has. "Trowa enjoyed your company, and outside of me and the other three, he doesn't enjoy much of anyone. Also, it's only fair: you spent an evening with him, I'd like a shot."

"A shot."

"At getting to know you."

Une pinches the bridge of her nose. "You do remember that I almost killed one of your best friends once? Among other—"

"We were at war. And I…I think that if I've grown since then, and I like to believe I have, that you must have too. Also, Trowa is a surprisingly good judge of character. I've learned not to discount his opinion."

Une's not sure she believes he ever did. She takes another draw of coffee. He says, "Seriously, we'd really like it."

Saying no to a near-pleading Quatre Winner is quite the task. She thinks she was probably the kind of woman who would have done it in an instant less than a year before. She's not any more, though. And maybe that's what he's trying to tell her. "I'm allergic to carrots."

"We can work with that. Bring something to drink, all right?"

He's gone before she can agree.

*

Without Une realizing anything is happening, dinners at the Winner-Barton condo become a thing. She tells them, "Your cat likes me." Oddly enough, this is true. She also likes _them,_ though. Winner drags her out to the Farmer's Market on Saturday mornings, where they seek out the best coffee and pick up whatever ingredients on the list Barton has written out.

Barton starts telling her to arrive an hour early, and teaches her cooking basics. She asks how he learned one time, and he freezes for a moment, but then unwinds, and says, "I was low-kid on the totem pole in the band of mercs I grew up in."

She swallows back her horror at everything that goes unsaid in that admission and says, "Useful."

He smirks and says, "You're not cutting the garlic fine enough."

*

Une misses when Barton becomes Trowa and Winner becomes Quatre. There must be a point, of course, there always is with these things. But it escapes her notice. And then suddenly, it's a bitterly cold Tuesday, when Quatre and Trowa show up to her office with a steaming cup of Americano from her favorite coffee stand, and an orange kitten which seems to be missing a leg.

Une would like to be able to say that her immediate reaction isn't, "What." That would be a lie. (One she will tell, if need be.)

Quatre smiles that way he has, without reserve or caution, like he's got nothing to fear, and says, "Happy birthday."

Une hesitates long enough—considering whether to check the date on her computer screen—that Trowa says, "You forgot it was your birthday, didn't you?"

Technically, Une forgot her birthday was even a thing, but she doesn't feel the need to have that discussion. Instead she says, "I lost track of the days."

Trowa's entire bearing screams "bullshit." Quatre just comes further inside, sets the cup on her desk and says, "This is…well, actually, she doesn't have a name yet. Duo found her in the yard when he was doing scrap collection and Heero wouldn't let him bring home a fifth cat."

It will never be unamusing to Une how whipped Heero is by Duo. She says, "So you brought her to me?"

"You need a cat," Trowa says, like they've had this discussion and she's just being stubborn. They have not had this discussion.

Une works too damn much to have a cat, but the cat in question has thrown caution to the wind, hopped out of Trowa's arms and is now nosing at Une's pant-leg with a boldness Une can appreciate in any creature, but particularly one that's a fiftieth of her size and already missing one limb, recovered from a literal trash heap. She grabs the coffee and takes a sip. It's still hot, rich and exactly what she needed without realizing it.

She bends down to skritch at the kitten. Trowa has sat down at some point, and folded his legs into a pretzel. He's now watching her with the kitten.

After a moment, she smiles a little, just a scrunching of her eyes, really, and says, "Nutmeg, I think," because the color of the cat reminds her of pumpkin pie.

Trowa says, "Nut, for short."

*

Sometimes, when she has to travel for the job, Une will come home to Nutmeg having peed in at least one pair of her shoes. It's hard to mind, though, when the cat inevitably spends that whole first day following Une around the apartment.

Trowa and Quatre tend to take care of things while she's away. They feed Nutmeg, water the plants, that sort of thing. They also always leave food in the fridge so Une'll have something to eat when she gets back from having visited seven colonies in six days, which is often how it goes.

She's not sure how to express her gratitude, so she buys them cat ornaments for their Christmas tree, tickets to concerts that aren't covered in their season package, and anything else that it seems like they might enjoy. At one point, Quatre quietly tells her, "You don't have to buy our love," but he also lets it go when she shrugs.

Une thinks Trowa gets it. In any case, he's careful to make sure all the ornaments are in pride of place when Christmas comes around again.

*

Treize has a daughter. Had a daughter. Treize is dead and his heretofore unknown daughter is alive and Une doesn't know the proper grammar to describe that situation. It shouldn't be important, but at the moment, trying to puzzle it out is the only thing between her and a second mental breakdown. The first kind of shook out all right, admittedly, but she doesn't want to chance it again.

Treize's daughter is either a power-hungry psychopath or a pawn in a very dangerous position.

Une has been certain of precious few things since finally managing to merge her psyches, but she knows, without question, that she is tired of war. Even were it Treize himself, alive and making the pitch for it, she does not think she could follow him this time. She doesn't want to destroy anything else. Fixing what is already broken is wearing and at times infuriating. All the same, she prefers it.

What's more, she is only too aware of how another war will destroy the things she values: her growing belief in Relena's leadership, her friendship with Trowa and Quatre, her ability to go home to a cat who loves her even when she's being prickly and uncouth.

She doesn't want war for herself or the pilots. She doesn't want war for this little girl with Treize's bearing, and no real understanding of what his name means. She just…doesn't want war.

*

They avert a war, somehow, the five and Relena. Stop it right in its tracks, and Une walks away with a child, Treize's child, and no fucking idea of where to go from there. The first night she tucks Mariemaia into her own bed and sleeps on the couch, Nutmeg curled against her chest. She wakes up to nightmares three times before she gives up and goes to the breakfast nook, where she works on mindless paperwork, requisitions, and other basic administration-related minutiae.

She's on her third cup of coffee at six in the morning when there's a quiet knock on the door. Une frowns and goes to it, looking out the peephole. She unlocks the door and opens it, whispering, "What are you doing here?" to Trowa and Quatre, who are standing there, a bag of bagels and a bottle of orange juice held out in offering.

"Technically," Quatre whispers back, "we don't have any more experience with kids than you do."

"But we figured some help couldn't hurt," Trowa finishes quietly and tilts his head toward inside. 

She steps back and lets them in. They follow her to the kitchen. Trowa goes to toasting the bagels. Quatre says, "Maybe a two-bedroom place is where we start?"

It's a good suggestion. Logical and achievable. She grabs her tablet and starts a list of things she wants. "A backyard, for sure. Near work so my commute isn't keeping me out of her life, also near schools, so she's not having to be driven halfway across the region."

"Maybe an office," Trowa says. "So you can work from home at times, and she has somewhere to study."

"Near to us," Quatre adds. "Since you need support."

Une's hand falters. "This—when you decided to befriend me. This was not part of the bargain."

Trowa pushes a toasted blueberry bagel with melted butter and a sprinkling of cinnamon sugar in front of her. It's her favorite, which he knows. He says, "Shut up and eat your bagel."

Quatre holds out his hands. "Gimme the list. I'm gonna contact my people, have them start looking."

Normally, she would call them out on their bossiness. This morning, she's just glad they have some idea of the way forward.

*

Mariemaia stumbles in a few hours later, blinking at the three of them. Une asks, "Breakfast?"

"Coffee," Mariemaia states.

"Breakfast," Une reiterates. She's not sure how she knows kids shouldn't be drinking coffee, just that she knows it.

Mariemaia grumbles, sitting down and openly trying to attract Nutmeg to sit in her lap. Quatre says, "We've got blueberry, potato, cinnamon raisin, and sun-dried tomato bagels. Like any of those?"

"Potato. Do you have the cream cheese with the chives?"

Quatre shakes his head. "No, sorry, salmon and regular."

"Salmon, then."

"Please," Une says.

Mariemaia blinks at her, as though she's said something in a foreign language. Une just waits, and thankfully, Quatre follows her lead. After several seconds, Mariemaia quietly says, "Please."

"Absolutely," Quatre says, as though nothing has happened, and makes the bagel.

*

All of the pilots, Relena, Sally, Dorothy, and even Noin, pitch in to help with the move. Mariemaia appoints herself the Guardian of Nutmeg, and spends most of her time herding him. Still, she helps unpack what art and books and personal touches there are, and she and Une spend an evening deciding where things will go.

When they are finished, she says, "This house is boring."

Une laughs. "Yeah, but it's ours to do what we want with."

Une doesn't mention the way Mariemaia's mouth curls up at the word "ours."

*

In a fortuitous set of circumstances, the circus comes to town the same month of Mariemaia's birthday, and Trowa takes them opening night. Mariemaia is unimpressed by the lights and the colors, but she sees the lions and is smitten. She tugs on Une's hand, saying, "Come, let's go see them."

Une says, "I don't know that—"

Trowa cuts her off by taking her other hand and leading her over. He murmurs to the lion in a language she doesn't understand, French, possibly, and it settles, lying close enough that Mariemaia can reach her hand into the cage and pet its fur. She gasps, "It's not like Nutmeg at all!"

Trowa, who's keeping eye contact with the lion, one hand skritching behind her ear, smiles. Une's heart doesn't stop trying to beat right out of her body, but it slows.

Eventually they are able to drag Mariemaia to their seats. She doesn't like the knife throwing, despite Trowa telling her how the person is trained, how many hours they spend practicing. She loves the juggling and the fire swallowing, practically comes out of her skin for the trapeze artists, and claps so hard it has to hurt for each of the animal acts.

By the time the ringmaster vacates the ring, she's halfway to falling asleep. Quatre hitches her up on his side, and Une tells them, "Thank you. This—thanks."

Trowa says, "Told you I'd have to take you. I'm good for my promises. Implied or otherwise."

That kind of steadiness hasn't been much of a feature in Une's life. She's starting to believe it is with them, though.

*

Une all but stumbles into her place at around three in the morning, every possible thing having gone wrong on the trip home from the political summit she'd attended in Relena's stead. She'd messaged Quatre and Trowa to tell them to just spend the night, that she'd crash in the guest room when she arrived. Even so, Trowa's in the kitchen when she gets there.

"Couldn't sleep?" Une asks. He's sitting at the table, so she hugs him loosely from behind.

"Chamomile tea is set up to steep," he says, gesturing at the cup by the stove.

"If you weren't married—"

"I'd still be pretty gay, but we could probably make a good go as platonic life partners."

Une laughs softly, pouring the hot water and dropping the tea ball into the cup. "Q asleep?"

"Fell asleep watching a movie with Mari. I had to carry them both to bed."

"Thanks for staying with her. It—it makes it a lot easier to be away." Not easy, but easier.

"She's our favorite niece."

"Hasn't Q got like…eighty?"

"Sixty-two at last count, so it's a pretty serious assessment."

"Trowa—"

"It's nothi—"

"Thank you for inviting me to the symphony."

That stops him. She comes to sit at the table, the cup warming her hands. "I don't know why you asked me, even now, I don't know. But I know it changed everything. Thank you."

He stares at her for a long moment before shrugging. "Thank you for coming. I didn't think you would."

She smiles at that, the acknowledgement strangely bittersweet to her. "Stay the night? I'll make French toast in the morning. I've gotten pretty good at it. And I brought lemon curd back, because it's a thing there."

"I got that coffee you like from the Farmer's Market last weekend. You have to share."

She takes a sip from the tea, now cool enough to actually swallow. "You've got yourself a deal."


End file.
